݁.𖥔 Content Warning: pre-established relationship, smut, p in v, blowjob, dry humping, handjob, fingering
A/N: @carebearcozy’s post about my request picked my interest for this scenario. Also, special credits for Kakashi & Genma’s fanart from @cuddlymaus and for Sasuke & Itachi’s fanart from @emoiover. 🫶🏽
༄ Morning Wood? Wood Release no Jutsu?
Kakashi 🍃
Kakashi’s secured hold acted like a blanket, with his toned arms covering your body and hands placed over your belly as his chest met your back. In his borderland state of mind, Kakashi’s hips rubbed against your ass. Only when you muddled murmur of your voice made him fully aware, eyes open wide.
First, he saw your exposed nape, strands of hair tickling your skin from your shoulder to your face. Second, he felt the fruitful heat between your bodies as his eyes avert down to the source of it. Fuck. He has a boner.
At that, Kakashi tried to create some distance, at least a little. He took his hands off your intertwined bodies, but just after his hand left you, it was just as fast back while you placed yours on top of his. He barely discerned your soft grumbling.
“No…Where are you going…?"
Kakashi realized you’re not even awake completely since your eyes are closed. But gradually, after the lack of his response, you felt yourself aware of your warm surroundings, sensing his rigid posture behind you.
You looked over your shoulder as Kakashi glanced back at your beautiful, strained eyes.
“Why are you so far? Come closer.”
He swallowed, licking his dry lips before his raspy morning voice made you feel dangerous things below where his hand still is.
“I shouldn’t.”
A puzzled look formed on hour face, your head turned to the side to catch a glimpse of his restrained expression. He looks so unguarded — his silver, dishevelled hair covered his bedroom gaze in his right eye, while the other was closed on his beautiful, bare face you loved to see, yet you couldn’t get use to it. You didn’t understand the want in them until you glanced down.
“Oh.” Was all you could say at first, feeling the warm spreading in your cheeks, until you added shyly. “Come here?”
Kakashi looked scrutinizingly over your features, trying to gauge what you really want, and all he was the subtle desire in your eyes.
Morning sex? Well, how could he say no to that…?
Itachi 🍃
The first rays of sunrise cause Itachi's eyes to flutter as he grows conscious of his own body shortly after. His eyes opened in an instant, cheeks warming slightly.
So inappropriate.
He felt ashamed for having such a reaction, especially since he wad so close to you, and he suspected this was making him more aroused. Itachi knew this is a normal reaction of a well-conditioned body, yet it didn’t sit well with him to stay like this. Slowly, he takes his hands off your sleepy body as you let small groans leave your lips, making his body frozen until he made sure he didn’t wake you.
Itachi raised himself on the bed, head leaning against the counter. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at nothing in particular. What could he do? He should take care of himself in the bathroom? No, that’s just indulging in his primal urges. A cold shower? A run in the morning?
Vigilant to how he is in general, Itachi didn’t realise you were awake until you turned around, hand searching for him until it landed on his leg. He was petrified, locking his eyes on you when you addressed him.
“Itachi?”
He adjusted his voice, trying to act composed as much as he could.
“Sleep, [Name]. It’s still early.”
You whined, rolling your body towards him until your face rested on his chest.
This is worse, Itachi thought.
He placed his arm around you hesitantly as he dared to glance down at you only to see the perplexed expression on your face. It only took you a second to see the compromising position he was in when you glanced down closer to where your hand landed just before. When you looked back at him, Itachi’s breath stopped. You saw the blush in his face, despite his unreadable expression.
You bite a smile at that.
“Can I help you with…?”
His voice was aggravating, lacking sincerity.
“You don’t need to. It will pass.”
His chest heaves with each breath as your touch moves lower, nearing his waist.
“What if I want to?”
Itachi’s throat was dry, not taking his eyes off you as he saw the lovely, yet alluring gaze you gave him. He could only nod after a second too long, feeling too embarrassed to let you know that he really wants you to help him.
Obito 🍃
Obito didn’t even realise the condition he was in since you turned around in your sleep, staying so close to his soul — leg over his waist, arms around his body as his head nuzzled into your neck. He didn’t really sense if you were here with him since he was also not quite awake, but both of your bodies reacted before your mind can think. He pressed soft kisses on your neck, making you gasp unconsciously as you slowly moved against him. He gripped your leg higher, his own body grinding over yours.
Then, as he started to wake, Obito pressed a light kiss on your lips as you slowly opened your eyes, the lust present in them mirrored his.
“Morning, baby.” You hummed, claiming his lips as he guided your body on your back, his body pressing fully against yours now, legs already parting for him until you felt his hard dick, making you moan against his mouth. He whispered against your ear as his thrusts turned firmer. “Do you see how you make me feel? Hm? Only you can do this.”
“F-Fuck, Obito…”
Obito surely likes to feel you first in the morning.
Shisui 🍃
Shisui rubbed his hand over his eyes for waking up all of a sudden. His hand landed on the small furniture next to the bed, checking the time on his phone. Hell, what's with this ungodly hour?
He glanced back at you, causing a subtle to form on his drowsy expression as he could hear the small snores leaving your lips, your palm under your right cheek.
Just before he wanted to close his eyes again, coming closer the sweet heat your body provides for him, he felt his own. Ah, waking up in a tent again?
He could feel his arousal rising as filthy thoughts filled his mind when he glanced at his hard dick and then at you. Two times. He grinned to himself. Wouldn't it be a great time to wake his baby like this?
Slowly, yet sure of himself, he placed his hand over your front, closing the distance until his warm breath was against your neck. He placed soft kisses here and here, his hand wandered over your body as his own now pressed against yours. When you guided your hips unwittingly towards him, Shisui actually let out a quiet moan. Dirty girl.
He needs to wake you up now. How do you tease him like that even in your sleep? Not like this was the first time; already knowing how vulnerable you are in the mornings, letting him feel you like that. In fact, you stated this before, shyly enough to make his heart melt on the spot.
“You can wake me up…when…you are like this.”
When you murmured, still sleepy, Shisui's moves turned bold; his hand squeezed your breast, hips meeting your unconscious movement as his dick started getting lonely by the moment.
You whispered, asking him for no real reason.
“W-What time is it?”
“Way too early.” He murmured, his lips tracing your neck with wet kisses as his hand came to tilt you until he started kissing you in an uncoordinated, sensual kiss. Just then you felt his dick pressed against your ass, eyes now fully open while he already looked at you with a smirk on his face.
“Look who woke up.”He looked down at his hardness, but you couldn't roll your eyes since you were already moaning from his slow thrusts. Shisui kneaded your ass cheeks, making room for his clothed dick to feel better over your already damp underwear since this is how you normally sleep with him. “It would be such a shame to not give it to my baby, right?”
“Shusui…”
He kissed your lips one more time. It was already too hard to waste a minute more.
“Turn around for me, sweetheart.”
Genma 🍃
Genma felt his scratchy, dry throat before he opened his eyes, sighing and sitting up as he opened the bottle of water next to the bed. Gulping almost all of it that few drops of water fell onto his bare chest. Too hot. The weather outside was unbearable, even indoors. And the night was even worse.
He looked at you then, seeing your body stretched out across the bed, barely leaving him room to sit. His mouth twitched, amused at the sight. Then, his gaze lingered over your body, your ass slightly bent sweetly toward him. The fact that you were also half-naked — wearing some shorts you’d stoled from him and a top that had ridden up enough to leave your breasts exposed—didn’t help Genma at all.
Tsk. That’s all he needed right now. To be hard while also dying of heat at the same time. He should sleep.
He tried. He really tried, palm resting under his face, body positioned to the side. But his constant fidgeting on the bed wakes you up too, and the first sound you let out is an irritated groan.
“The fuck are you doing, Shinarui?!”
Aw, someone is angry? You rolled onto your belly, putting a pillow over your head as the view was another sweet angle, ass in plain sight.
Hmm.
“Sorry, sorry.” You throw the pillow from your head since the cold part of it already starts burning as he catches it and your hand freezes mid-air.
When you peered to see him, contemplating if you should beat his ass for waking you up after you barely got to sleep because of the humidity in the room, your eyes locked on his piercing gaze and having a lapse in your judgement. You exhaled hard, dropping your head on the bed, facing him as his fingers started playing with strands of your hair, letting your face breathe from the sweat.
“It’s too damn hot.”
“Mhm. It wakes me up too.”
Your eyes open slowly, looking at him as his faint touches now traced your sides until they rested on your hip, burning the area. You glanced down. Great, Genma has a boner.
“And you decide to wake me up too?”
When he came closer, you turned around swiftly to escape him as he chuckled, not really minding the new position as his exploring touches start messing with your inner debate.
“Geeenma! It’s too hot…”
Genma starts kissing the back tenderly of your neck, brushing the hair off and murmuring against your skin. That’s true. Maybe an ice play will help next time?
“I’ll be short?”
He adjusts himself, pressing his dick against your ass. Then his hand leaving your thighs, spreading his palm across your stomach and abdomen, pulling, trying to pull you closer as if you could get any closer, feeling his heat merging with yours, already spreading inside all your body.
“I-It better be good.”
You know your taunting words are in vain; it's not like he will ever disappoint you here, letting yourself be sexually deprived.
“Of course, baby.” He sucked your earlobe slowly while his hands cradled your poor, needy breast, playing with your hard nubs, hips grinding against your ass. "When would Iever let my pretty girl be unsatisfied?”
You bite your lip, head resting against his shoulder. He leaned his head against yours, one of his hands came to squeeze your butt, and his thrust turned hungry, leaving you a desperate mess as his other hand came to lift your chin. His thumps pressed on your lips until you opened them by the moans that slipped from your lips.
“You…didn’t—!”
Genma kissed you then, shortly, his raspy breaths warming your face as his hands came to touch you where you couldn’t wait for it. His front didn’t meet your back anymore, as he took his dick out to stroke it with one hand before the other came between your legs, fingers teasing between your pussy folds before they started circling around your clit.
“Fuck. You are so wet, baby.”
He tested your entrance, his finger started fucking your pussy at the same time he stroked himself. Your pretty voice only spurred him more.
“Only for you, G-Genma—“
He groaned as his cum purred down on your ass as he prolonged the intense feeling with his hand milking himself dry. Damn, that was quick. Yet, his orgasm barely wears off until he lifts your leg as his now two fingers start thrusting inside you, making your mind blank until all the heat you feel is from him, provoked by him. And you realised you didn’t mind at all.
Madara 🍃
Madara adjusted his position, placing a hand behind his head when he woke up abruptly. He decided to stay a couple of minutes more since this day isn’t particularly eventful. He wouldn’t say out loud, but the heat emanating from your body against him was driving him closer to sleep too.
He opened one of his eyes when you woke up too, lifting your face from his naked chest as you glanced at him shortly before looking over your shoulder when you saw it was still night outside. You groaned, resting your head again him while you mumbled.
“Why can't I fucking sleep more on free days…”
You opened your eyes as his voice had a gravelly, morning tone, but your attention now was on something else entirely.
“Complaining about it will not make any difference. Go back to sleep.”
No remarks? Madara thought.You couldn’t be irritated enough to ignore him first thing in the morning just from that. You can handle more. He tilted his head to see you better, noticing your open eyes.
Ah. By the way you fidget slightly, pressing your inner thighs against his leg slowly like you didn't mean it, but it didn’t go unnoticed.
“It will go down alone. No intention behind it.” He raised an eyebrow when you gazed at him, seeing the familiar lascivious gaze in your eyes. Someone is hungry? He wasn’t phased by typical body reactions, but yours was interesting. Yet, you’re stubborn enough to not say it directly. “Say what you think, minx.”
He saw the hesitation before you dropped the sinful idea, leaning back against his chest.
“Nothing.”
He sighed. In a minute, Madara moved your body as you gasped, shocked by the sudden action, until he was towering over you. He took your hands and place them on both sides of your head.
“So my wife’s mind isn't filled now with filthy thoughts? That’s what are you saying?” You swallowed, tilting your head to the side to avoid his intense, dark gaze as his mouth twitched. “Hm?” He spoke between firm, wet kisses on your neck before lowering himself until you felt his hard dick, but you wrapped your legs invitingly around him.
“Y-You just want to hear it— Mhm! F-For your ego to get bigger.”
He squeezed your breast against his big hands, raising your shirt to suck and kiss on the skin here.
“And what if I do?” He straightened himself to take his dick out of his pants, looking at you as he spat in his mouth before stroking himself. You watched in a daze, feeling your breath cut short. “Is it that bad to fuck my wife first thing in the morning?”
Definitely not. But you wouldn’t say that out loud so soon. Only when his thrust will turn so rough and his fingers will move on your clit so sweet until a weak admission will slip past your lips.
Sasuke 🍃
The sun barely found a place between the curtains when Sasuke woke up. Not because he intended to; he still has at least half an hour before his dawn session should start, but you moved in your sleep, unconsciously chasing his body until you put your head over his chest, with your arm over him.
He let his fingers swirl barely against the strands of your hair, then rested his hand over your head until he sighed, closing his eyes for a couple of minutes —for nothing. Slowly, he start to feel an unfamiliar feeling at first until he realised when he opened his eyes again, raising slightly to see the bulge forming in his pants.
He drops his head over the pillow again, glancing shortly at you. This is not good. At all. And it got worse when you moved slightly again, humming probably at the soothing calmness his warmth provides as you always told him before while you pressed around him more, accidentally resting your leg over his dick. He grunted uncontrollably, feeling mortified as seconds passed.
Sasuke got used to you and the cuddling session you forced him into. Well, forcing is not really the truth. Even if it took time for his body to ease around you, he didn’t mind having you in his arms. You’re his lover after all. Still, this is a completely different feeling. His own body betraying him.
“Sasuke?” No. Sleep. Please, sleep.
He swallowed, not really answering. He shuts his eyes when he senses you’ll open yours, faking sleep. Yet, he betrayed himself even more when your fingers started tracing his fingers over his face, faintly — on his pretty features, tracing the line of his eyebrows, on his not-so-pale cheeks.
You stilled when his eyes opened slowly, locking on yours right away.
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry.” He didn’t respond, but you pressed again. “Sasuke?”
He sighed. But when he felt you wanted to break away from him, his hold intensified as he blurted out the words. “N-No. You didn’t. I was…awake.”
“Hm? Did you just fake being asleep?”
Your teasing smile fades when your eyes wander for more explanation. You almost choke on air at the same time with him, a blush formed on both of your faces and you were the first to hide in his chest.
You could feel his heartbeat pumping violently against your ear, and that really caught your attention. Slowly, you raised your head and looked at him. His attention was fully on you now. He feels restless about what you will say that his mouth stays shut.
“Do you… Can we…”
His eyes widen slightly at the same time you struggle to vocalise what you want. Your flustered expression was enough for Sasuke’s control to slip as his hand guided your back, his other cupping your face as his mouth found yours in a much-needed kiss.
That was all it took for Sasuke to not feel embarrassed, instead letting his low, deep thrust fuck your pussy until both of you were left with no air to breathe.
Naruto 🍃
Naruto inhaled your scent, his face brushing your hair as he found himself hugging you tighter against him. At that, you turned around in your sleepy state of mind, puzzling your bodies together as your hand now rested behind his neck, tugging his hair gently.
“Ghh…I don’t want to wake up.”
You chuckled, his voice waking you more as your hand goes to caress his back, whispering against his ear.
“You should, baby. You’re going to be late again.”
He didn’t really hear your words clearly since his mind started going in another direction; a shiver went down his spine as the warm air puffed from your lips touched his neck. Just then, Naruto felt something growing between his legs. Oh, no!
Naruto stilled, and your wandering hand stopped, leaning your head back to watch him.
“Naruto?”
He only glanced once at you, too shy to say something as his head lowered to hide his face from you, accidentally nuzzling his face between your breasts. Damn it! His head rose in an instant, his mouth open with his cheeks flushed hard. You giggled at the sight, pressing a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth and then on his cheek.
“What’s with this face?” He moved slightly for the inconvenient feeling down there, and that’s how you felt it — when he pushed his hips towards you, his dick touching your leg by mistake. You gulped, your own face reddened as your gaze turned a shade darker. “S-So this was the problem.”
He swiftly goes on his back before he grips the blanket from the end of the bed and covers himself, hands gripping around it, hiding half of his face.
“Naruto?”
He put his hand over his eyes, grumbling.
“This is so embarrassing!"
He looked surprised at you when your hands came on top of his, dropping them to reveal his red face. You couldn’t hide the teasing smile you showed in your voice too.
“Don’t hide! You’re kind of cute like this…”
His muscles tensed at your praise, but more when your hands came under the pillow, moving slowly towards his painfully hard dick. He followed the actions like in a daze until he turned his head sharply towards you.
"What—What are you doing?”
Your face inches apart from him now, whispering against his ear.
“Can I touch you, Naruto?”
Your hand stopped moving, fingers circling around his belly as you wait for an answer. It came pinched, desperately, which only made you touch him immediately.
"Y-yes…" Naruto moaned when he felt your palm against his pants, stroking him teasingly before your hand came under the clothes to feel his precum around your tips as you spread it around his dick. “Please—“
Naruto thinks that’s the best decision he took in all his life.
Shikamaru 🍃
With your face pressed against the pillow, sleeping on your belly until the clock rang in the whole fucking room, you groaned as you gripped another one and threw it where Shikamaru’s body probably is.
“What the hell—“
You spoke irritably.
“Turn off that fucking clock! It’s the third time it rings!”
Shikamaru’s arm was over his forehead, one of his eyes open lazily. His voice was hoarse.
“That’s for sure the best way to wake up your man in the morning.”
You turned your head towards him, glaring at him and catching him as he adjusted the pants that confined his morning wood. A pink formed on his cheek when he looked back at you, but he didn’t say anything.
“Yeah? And how should I wake my man then, huh? Since he wakes me up like this.”
Shikamaru’s eyes lingered on your body; your short pyjama pants make the curve of your body now resting on your side more appealing. When he looked back at you as you already saw his lingering gaze, knowing what his lazy ass might think right now, Shikamaru actually surprised you.
“Sorry. I’ll try to wake at the first alarm. Or…maybe I should sleep on the couch when I need to wake up before you.”
You raised an eyebrow, sensing the docile side of him surging from something else. Not that Shikamaru can’t be considerate when needed. But the way he averts his eyes when you look at him tells you that’s not really the only reason.
You start moving slowly as he follows every movement. Your tone wasn’t aggressive anymore, more taunting-like.
“You still didn’t answer my question, Shikamaru.”
The way his name falls from your lips makes him twitch in his pants. He raised himself a little as he parted his legs at the same time you came over him. He let out a heavy breath when you started living kisses from the top of him, his face, and his neck, followed by a peck on his lips as your intense gaze put him in place.
Shikamaru knows when he should definitely shut up.
You continued, your hand lifting his t-shirt to kiss him here, squeezing the muscles he usually hides as he looked on at how you bent for him, raising your ass in the air. His pupils grew when he saw your grin, looking at him under your fluttering lashes.
“Fuck…”
“So? Can you answer me, or are you too out of your genius mind?”
He gulped when you started undressing him, his pants followed by his shorts, while he didn’t know where to look at first.
“You should wake me however you want.”
You breathed a laugh, watching him shut his eyes close as you took his dick in your hand, stroking him slowly after spreading his wetness around the tip, then to the base.
“Yeah? Then don’t complain the next time.”
Shikamaru gasped when he felt your warm mouth placing kisses around him before taking him inside. His hand goes straight to your hair, struggling to grasp it in a ponytail as he already feels embarrassingly close.
“Y-yes, babe I will—Fuck!" He cut himself off when you started sucking him faster, moving your hand over the base of his dick to stroke at the same time, then cupping his full balls to play with them, showing a little attention here too.
He will keep his promise. He will definitely wake up on the first alarm from now on if things like this happen often. After all, he listens to whatever his wife says, even if he messes up sometimes until he learns his lesson. As he should.
Gaara 🍃
The first time it happened, Gaara acted in an instant. He takes your hands off him carefully, moving your body in a slow manner so as not to wake you up, and goes straight to the bathroom.
He felt guilty getting himself off in it with you in the next room. His mind was so full of blaming thoughts until he stilled when he felt a presence behind him. You whined sleepily as you came closer to him, not yet aware why Gaara would wash his hands in such an aggressive rhythm.
Meanwhile, the water still poured when you went to wash your face. When you finally saw him better, you raised an eyebrow, confused.
“Gaara, are you okay?”
Gaara didn’t say anything, too embarrassed to even move or speak until you saw the wet spot over his pants. He looked down after you already did it, and when his eyes looked into yours, his face was already the same colour as his hair.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His eyes widen, finally turning to face the sink, gripping the sides of it as his head lowered, bangs covering his flustered figure.
“How could I? That will be a selfish action.”
He almost choked when he felt your touch —face pressing against his back, hands over his chest.
“Not if I wanted to.”
Gaara didn’t say anything for a minute before he finally whispered.
“I…didn’t know.”
You tilted your body until he gave you a side glance while you rise a little on your tiptoes to place a small kiss on his warm cheek.
“Now you do!”
And next time, composed as he was, Gaara tried to muffle his moans with the back of his hands as you stroked him slowly, almost teasingly, enjoying every reaction he gave you as he came for you way too quickly while his body shook with pleasure.
More credits -> The rest of the fanarts are mostly from X: Shikamaru - @penac00ny ; Naruto - @Eluspac_Maru ; Madara - @uchihaiada1 ; Obito - @JorlineSlick? Not sure. Mentioned on the photo. And Gaara & Naruto from pinterest.
your husband had a very convenient advantage over you.
and that would be picking you up— whenever and wherever.
falling asleep anywhere other than your bed was never an issue, not with him around. because rest assured— your very strong, very responsible and very devoted husband, has made it his mission to pick up his beloved wife and deliver her to safety and comfort.
you fell asleep on the couch while reading a book or watching a movie? no problem, he had already anticipated it. cue him carefully picking you up bridal style, grip firm but gentle, your head comfortably cradled against his chest. then, he'd start walking to your shared bedroom with slow steps— but not before staring at your sleeping face for a moment with a painfully tender gaze and pressing a featherlight kiss to your temple. everytime you woke up, you would find yourself neatly tucked in bed with him holding you close to him or simply gazing at you in quiet awe, like you were the very embodiment of beauty itself. (to him, you were, even if you disagreed.)
now, that's not the only place where his strength came to use. whenever you decide to act stubborn and bratty, you'd best be prepared for a pair of large, steady and warm hands to suddenly settle themselves on your waist, hoisting you up over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. he'd go on about his day just like that as if he didn't have a living, breathing, adult-sized human creating a fuss over his shoulder. he'll only put you down when he feels like it. or maybe if you manage to bribe him with some affection… (spoiler; it always works.)
another time would be when you're feeling particularly lazy to get up from bed in the morning. you don't want to get up? that's fine too, he'll let you latch onto him like a koala— your arms lazily looped around his neck, legs around his waist, and his hand keeping you steady while he casually takes a sip of his coffee with the other. that's his life now. happy wife, happy life.
however, there was also a time when he had you questioning your entire existence. you were standing in front of a drawer, very much distracted by an item in your hands. it just so happened that your husband needed to get something from the said drawer. his solution? extraordinary. lift you off the ground by your waist, relocate you to the side, get his drawer business done and casually go on and about with his day. you only processed this a minute later and he had no idea why you kept on staring at him like he had personally rewritten the laws of the universe itself.
long story short, he loved picking you up— even during times when it was unnecessary. why? because he simply could. and also because it was the perfect excuse to have you in his arms yet again.
Pranking male Naruto characters by avoiding their touch.
Uchiha Sasuke
At first, Sasuke ignores your strange behavior. If you wanted to be weird, that was your headache, not his.
But when you sidestep him during a mission as he reaches out to steady you after a jump, his eyes narrow.
"What's your problem?" he asks, deadpan, stepping closer and reaching out for you again.
You shrug innocently, dodging his touch once more. His jaw tightens, and he retracts his hand.
Sasuke is surprisingly patient after that. But after you dodge his touch a third time, that patience snaps.
Determined to keep up the charade, you move to avoid his arm when he tries to protect you again.
"Whatever" did you seriously think he had a problem with not touching you?
He doesn't even bother with words anymore. Playing along with your game, he grabs the back of your shirt and effortlessly flings you out of harm's way.
"Hey!" you cry, barely managing to land safely.
"You wanna play games? Fine," he mutters, completely unfazed by your wide-eyed glare.
For the rest of the day, Sasuke avoids your touch, despite your whining and apologies. This was your punishment for playing silly games with him.
Uzumaki Naruto
"huh??"
You must be tripping, Naruto thinks, watching you duck when he tries to pull you into one of his bone-crushing hugs.
Naruto is all about physical affection, high fives, random hugs, scooping you up into his arms. So when you dodge his hug, his jaw drops.
The look on his face is too ridiculous, you can't stop yourself from bursting into laughter at his utter shock of your audacity.
"You're so dramatic" you roll your eyes, pulling him into a hug as an apology.
Naruto grins and returns the hug twice as hard, lifting you off the ground for good measure. Ignoring your squeals of embarrassment, he parades through the village with you still awkwardly dangling in his arms as punishment.
"Put me down Naruto! You're so embarrassing!"
Aburame Shino
Shino is flabbergasted, to say the least. You never avoided his touch, and he loved that because you were the only person he was comfortable being affectionate with anyway.
His eye twitches, but his shoulders eventually sag in relief when he sees you struggling to contain your laughter.
You were just playing a silly prank after all, thank goodness.
He discreetly releases a meliponine bee from his jacket sleeve, the little creature was harmless and couldn't sting, but you didn't need to know that.
The moment you spot it, your eyes widen.
"SHINO, ONE OF YOUR BEES ESCAPED!"
Shrieking, you leap into his arms. His lips stretch into a smug smirk as he catches you.
"Oh? What's this? I thought you didn't want me to touch you?"
You narrow your eyes, quickly connecting the dots. Jumping out of his arms, you smack his shoulder lightly.
"Touché"
Hyuga Neji
Neji was pretty much sick of your shit at this point, you've been on a pranking streak all week and it put him on edge.
Now he questions every little reaction from you, wondering if it was a prank or not.
Even now, he stood watching you, his posture stiff, an irritated glare on his face.
"Stop testing my patience y/n."
He grits out, reaching for you again, watching you move out of the way.
"Have I...have I done anything to upset you?"
he asks, voice shaky, exhaustion creeping in. He was afraid this time you weren't joking and he might've actually upset you.
You immediately drop the act, not liking the kicked puppy dog look on his face one bit.
"I'm sorry, I was just messing around" you tug him into a hug to which he returns with a glare, ultimately glad this wasn't anything serious.
He reaches down to flick your forehead.
"Ow!"
"You're an idiot. Quit it with the silly games ok?" he murmurs gently brushing his fingers over the spot he flicked.
"Ok ok"
Uchiha Itachi
Itachi chuckles, watching you sidestep his hug. He immediately knew you were playing games, no one craved his touch more than you did.
"Are you sure you want to do that? I'm leaving for a mission and won't be back till tomorrow"
You bite your lip, weighing your options. He was right, 24hrs was way too long to go without a hug.
You huff, shuffling into his still open arms with defeat. "Fine, I yield"
He laughs again, giving you a soft squeeze before pulling away.
"I'll see you in a couple hours" he says, placing a kiss on your hair before pulling away.
"See y- wait what! You said tomorrow"
"I lied" he calls out, smiling casually, like he didn't just decieve you, continuing down the path without looking back.
You can't help but snort at his tactics, you were so going to get him back when he returns though.
Uchiha Obito
"Well aren't you a picture of domesticity" Obito muses, watching you make coffee in one of his button downs, the shirt large on you.
He can't help himself, he reaches out to feel your soft skin only to be met with air when you move out of the way, giving him a strange look.
If he paid more attention, he would've noticed the look on your face was you struggling to hold in your laughter, but his stomach was too busy dropping to his feet.
Obito was insecure, about his face, about his body, and his past. Despite your reassurances, a part of him never believed he was what you wanted.
He was chronically paranoid that one day you'd realize you could have better, and leave him.
It didn't take you too long to figure out what was going through his head when he froze, staring at you like a deer in headlights.
"Shit, this was a terrible idea" you immediately grab his hands, placing one on your cheek and the other on your waist "I'm sorry, I was just messing around"
He stares down at you for a few seconds gauging your sincerity before sighing, his body untensing in relief.
"You're a menace..." his arms snake around you, pulling you into his chest, happy this was just a joke.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry"
Hatake Kakashi
Kakashi notices but doesn't react right away. Instead, he silently joins your game.
Every time he sees you coming he makes a point to dramatically avoid touching you even by a hair's breadth, bending and contorting his body into all sorts of shapes.
"You're terrible" you giggle, trying to grab him, watching him dodge your hands like his life depended on it.
"me? You're the one who started it"
he finally relents, letting you tug him into your arms.
"You could've seriously hurt my feelings you know? I'm sensitive"
You snort, Kakashi didn't give a shit and you both knew it.
You lean up, tugging his mask down to peck his nose as an apology "You're about as sensitive as that rock over there"
He chuckles, deciding to let your snark go, he won after all, you wouldn't be avoiding his touch again.
I just realized I've never done headcannons for the naruto characters at once, so enjoy!
Tiny taglist🥲: @catlover19282
Feel free to check out my other Naruto Shippuden fics and more stories!
His hips never stopped their relentless rhythm, his thick, hard length slamming into your dripping pussy, his movements shook the bed beneath you both.
His large hand slid from your soft breast to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he held you against the bed, making you to take his tongue completely, the relentless touch of his lips against yours. "I could kiss you like this for hours", he murmured, nipping at your bottom lip before soothing the soft sting with a sensual swipe of his tongue. "Could feast on the sweetness of your mouth, could drink down every last drop of your pleasure until there's nothing left to give"
He murmured almost sweetly. And you knew he wasn't lying, not when he looked at you so sweetly and made you feel so special beneath him.
Itachi is not someone who’d be reckless with this decision.
Sure, his cheeks would turn scarlet when you ask. His head would whip to the side so fast his neck would be in danger of snapping, drawing one leg up as his entire body shifts towards you on the couch. He would slip two fingers into the collar of his t-shirt and tug, desperate for a cool breeze to tame the suffocating heat now creeping down his throat, flushing his chest.
His gaze would flicker across your face, hand resting on your thigh, squeezing once. He’d ask, “You — are you sure? You don’t want me to wear a condom anymore?” His voice would crack on the word condom and his blush would darken. Itachi would take a second to clear his throat, glaring at you without any real heat when you couldn’t hold back a laugh.
“I’m sure, Itachi.” You’d readjust your position, mirroring his, and look up at him through your lashes. “I just, I need to feel you. All of you,” you’d admit, playing with his fingers before lacing them together. The sweet heat building in your belly would remind you of the way it feels to drink a cup of hot chocolate.
Itachi’s lips would part, and you’d be certain you caught his dick jerking in his sweats. He’d make you wait until you’re on some other form of birth control. No surprise babies in this house.
Itachi would hold his breath when he pushed his latex free cock into you for the first time. His eyes would squeeze shut, a shaky exhale of your name spilling from his lips as he bottomed out and fucking came. You’d be able to feel the harsh twitching of his dick as he made you look nothing short of a cream filled donut. He’d be so embarrassed, ready to apologize, but he’d stop short at the fucked out look on your face.
The added slick sensation would turn you on like no other, cheeks hot to the touch as you begged him to keep going. He’d stay as hard as a rock, rolling you both until you’re perched in his lap. He’d draw his knees up, tangle his fingers with yours, and encourage you to “Ride me, sweetheart. C’mon, take what you need. I’ll let you use me until your pretty little pussy is sore.”
Itachi doesn’t have to tell you twice.
༝ ᭝ ༝ neji ༝ ᭝ ༝
⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣
Neji loves having sex with you, but he’d be a bit paranoid.
Neji’s uptight. From the outside, you’d never be able to tell how pussy drunk he gets. He’s a whiny, breathy mess any time his cock’s inside you.
However, he’d also be hyper aware he could get you pregnant if he’s not careful. He wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of having a baby with you, but he wouldn’t be ready for quite some time. He’d wear a condom, no matter how bad he wants your pussy to squeeze him raw. You’d have multiple conversations about it, convincing him to try just putting the tip in.
He’d be….hooked, to say the least. It’d be by sheer force of will that he doesn’t shove his entire cock in your pussy that first time. But, it’d also be the very next time Neji swears “just the tip”, when things spiral.
The warm ache in Neji’s belly would overshadow his concerns. He’d end up knocking your thighs further apart with his knees, bending forward and planting his elbows on either side of your head, leaving just a few centimeters between you. He’d whine, “Baby, I can’t handle this temptation any longer. Please, can I feel your pussy?”
“Fuck, put it in Neji. As long as you pull out it’ll be fine, I promise.” You’d lift your hips to take more of him before he could regret it, and Neji would oblige. Your pussy would hug his cock better than in his dreams, and Neji’s low, broken moan would light your blood on fire.
Neji would straighten up to sit on his knees, grip one of your ankles and haul your leg over his shoulder, allowing the other leg to hang loosely at his hip. He’d bend you in half to deepen the angle, hands resting by your shoulders. Just to tease you both, he’d pull out halfway and push back in at an agonizing pace.
Neji would fuck you within an inch of your life, long hair becoming a curtain that cuts you off from the world. Your nails would scratch angry pink lines down his chest, and his cock would start to throb as he toed the line of release. You’d smack his chest, reminding him with a desperate plea, “Don’t cum inside me! Neji, Neji, baby — you gotta pull out!”
He’d slip his cock free at the last second, letting your body flop to the bed as he stroked his cock. With three quick pumps he’d cum all over your belly.
Safe to say, this would be Neji’s new favorite way to have sex.
༝ ᭝ ༝ sasuke ༝ ᭝ ༝
⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣
Unlike his brother, Sasuke is impulsive.
He couldn’t deny the thought would cross his mind every now and then, playing with the idea of fucking you raw and seeing his sticky, white cum cover his cock and spill from your pussy.
Usually when he got the urge he’d jerk himself off. Cool fingers would wrap around his warm cock, shivers running down his spine as he stroked himself slowly. He’d cum in a heartbeat.
It would dull the ache of his desire for a while. Hell, he definitely wouldn’t want to have a baby any time in the near future. But soon enough it’d start to eat at him again. His stomach would clench tight every time you’d have sex, nasty dreams forcing him to wake up hard. That’s why, when you beg him to take the condom off, it’s take zero effort to convince him.
Your face would be buried in your pillow, ass in the air, and one hand would fist the sheets. The other would twist behind to smack against Sasuke’s lean lower belly, pushing at him to wait. He’d be too focused, hands pressing your lower back into a harsh arch, sweat trailing down his temple, over his jaw, dripping onto your back.
“Sasuke,” you’d moan, asking for his attention. “Wait, Sasuke — ah fuck!” You’d dig your nails into his belly until he sucked in a sharp breath. “Take the condom off, please!”
His hips would still, pressed flush to your ass. “What?” He’d ask, already be pulling out. “You want me to fuck you raw?” He’d tease. “So spoiled, princess.”
You’d roll onto your back, cheeks heated, chest heaving. “Just fucking take it off,” you’d demand, reaching to grasp the slippery latex and slide it free. Sasuke would smirk, eyes glued to his dick as it bobs once the condom pops off.
Sasuke’s jaw would go slack once you stroked his cock, the skin soft and slick from leftover lube. He’d fucking whimper, a noise he’d never made before, when he pushes all the way in. Sasuke’s thoughts wouldn’t be coherent after that. He’d put your knees to your ears and fuck you until he’s cum twice and you’re squirting onto his pelvis.
He would panic the next day, going dizzy with relief when you inform him you started getting birth control shots.
༝ ᭝ ༝ kakashi ༝ ᭝ ༝
⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣
Kakashi would be asking you if he could hit it raw.
For your entire relationship, Kakashi would have it known that he’s got a fantasy about giving you a “cream pie”, for lack of a better word. He’d never push you to do something you’re uncomfortable with, no, he’d be more than happy to even role play the act.
There’s no denying that Kakashi would truly want to get you pregnant. He’d love to see your belly round with his baby, but he’d be patient and wait for you to give him the go ahead. However, Kakashi has a loud mouth, and he’d voice his desires at least every other time you have sex.
In the end, the idea would get in your head and become more than appealing to you. When you gave in, it’d be when Kakashi least expected it. It’d be a night when his back is propped up by a couple pillows near your headboard, calloused hands gripping your ass and guiding the slow roll of your hips. Kakashi would be drooling about how well you ride his cock.
Your hands would brace themselves on his pecs, nails digging into his skin, and Kakashi wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut. No surprise there. “Babygirl,” he’d moan, eyes rolling towards the ceiling when your pussy clenches tight. “Look so pretty when you ride me, m’gonna cum so hard. You’ll let me knock you up, yeah? Wanna see you swollen with my baby so bad.”
You’d slap your hand over his mouth to stop the stream of filthy words, cheeks blistering. “Kakashi,” you’d say through your teeth, voice pitching higher. “Take off the condom.”
Kakashi’s eyebrows would shoot to his hairline, jaw dropping open as the words he’d been waiting forever to hear sunk in. There’s no way in hell you’d have to repeat yourself. He’d shove you off his lap and onto your back, settling between your spread thighs as he all but ripped off the condom. He’d stroke his cock a couple times before readjusting his weight, taking his time to slide his bare cock back inside you.
Kakashi would whine in back of his throat, pushing your thighs apart until your muscles started to protest. “Kakashi!” You’d gasp, pushing up to your elbows, fisting the sheets as he railed the shit out of you.
“Sorry, can’t — fuck, can’t help myself,” he’d pant, not sounding sorry at all. You’d catch a glimpse of Kakashi’s sharingan whirling and then he’d be cumming before you realized he’s close.
He wouldn’t stop with one round. He’d wring pleasure out of you until your legs turned to jelly. He’d cum again after that, making such a mess that you’d both end up in the shower.
Synopsis: In an arranged marriage neither of you wanted, you’ve quietly accepted that your husband, Itachi Uchiha, despises you. His silences are glacial, his touches nonexistent, his eyes always averted. You’ve made peace with a life of polite distance—better cold than cruel.
What you don’t know: every night Itachi locks his jaw, fists the sheets, and forces himself to stay on his side of the futon. He’s been hard for you since the ceremony, has imagined pinning you to the wedding bedding and taking you until you both forget your names. But he won’t. Not yet. Because the second he lets go, he’s terrified he’ll scare you away forever—and losing you would break what little is left of him.
So he restrains. He starves. He waits.
Until the night restraint finally shatters.
Warnings: Arranged Marriage AU, Itachi Uchiha/Reader, edging, oral sex (f! receiving), Itachi is painfully whipped, first time (neither of you are virgins tho I can't write that LMAO), fingering, unprotected sex, p in v sex, lowkey mating press(???), very very light blood, soft Dom Itachi, miscommunication, slight slow burn I guess
Word count: 7k
Author's Note: this was the very first fic request I ever got on my page and I'm finally done with it; this is officially the longest thing I've ever written 😩
requested by: kitsutsugikuni
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It started with whispers in the shadows of Konoha's council halls—rumors of unrest along the borders, fragile alliances cracking under the weight of old grudges. Your clan had long been guardians of ancient sealing jutsu, techniques that could bind even the mightiest beasts or unravel forbidden kinjutsu. But power like that came with many enemies, and in the fragile peace after the Third Great Ninja War, isolation was a death sentence.
The Uchiha, too, felt the noose tightening. Whispers of distrust from the village elders, eyes watching their every move. An alliance was needed, something that was unbreakable, sealed in blood and vows. Your clan offered knowledge; theirs offered protection. And you? You were the bridge between them.
You were twenty when the elders summoned you. "For the good of the clan," they said, faces etched with the stern lines of duty. Itachi Uchiha—prodigy, ANBU captain, heir apparent—was your chosen groom. You'd heard of him, of course: the boy who became a chunin at ten, the man who moved like a ghost through missions that would break lesser shinobi. Cold. Efficient. Untouchable.
You'd met him once before, years ago, during a joint training exercise between clans. He'd disarmed you in seconds, Sharingan flaring briefly as he pinned your wrist with effortless precision. "Yield," he'd said, voice flat. No mockery, no warmth. Just fact. You'd nodded, cheeks burning, and he'd released you without another word.
Now, that memory haunted you as the arrangement was finalized. Betrothal scrolls exchanged, dates set. You told yourself it was an honor, that it was for the good of not only your clan, but his. But in the quiet nights leading up to the wedding, doubt crept in like mist off the Naka River. Would he resent you? Hate you? Would he be kind or indifferent? See you as a chain around his neck? Your clan celebrated with feasts and toasts; you smiled through it all, burying the knot in your stomach under the burden of your duty.
Itachi, you later learned through overheard conversations, had accepted without protest. That’s the first thing you two ever agreed upon as husband and wife: duty first, always.
The day dawned crisp and golden, autumn leaves swirling like confetti under a sky too blue for the gravity of it all. The Uchiha compound was transformed—lanterns strung between ancient oaks, incense curling from altars laden with offerings to ancestors. Your wedding kimono was a masterpiece: layers of expensive white and crimson silk embroidered with interlocking clan crests, heavy as armor. It whispered against your skin as attendants fussed over your hair, pinning it with jade combs that caught the light like emeralds.
You were led to the central shrine, heart pounding in rhythm with the taiko drums. Guests murmured—elders from both clans, a few Hokage representatives to witness the union. And there he was: Itachi, standing tall in black haori with the Uchiha fan emblazoned on his back. His hair was tied back, exposing the sharp lines of his face. He looked... composed. Eyes forward, hands clasped loosely at his sides.
As you approached, his gaze flicked to you—brief, assessing. No smile. No warmth. Just a nod, polite and distant. The priest began the rites: purification with salt and water, sips of sake from shared cups that tasted bitter on your tongue. Vows were exchanged—simple, binding words about loyalty, strength, legacy. Your voice barely wavered. His was steady as stone.
When it came time to exchange rings—simple gold bands etched with protective seals—his fingers brushed yours. Cool skin, calloused from years of wielding kunai. A spark jumped between you, chakra flickering unconsciously. You glanced up; his eyes were darker than usual, but he pulled back quickly, as if burned.
The ceremony ended with applause and fireworks—bursts of color against the fading light. A banquet followed: tables groaning with grilled eel, sashimi, and mochi dusted in kinako. You sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, but he spoke only when spoken to. "The food is adequate," he said once, passing you a plate. You thanked him softly. He nodded.
That night, in the bridal chamber, tension hung thick as fog. The futon was laid out, petals scattered like blood drops. You waited, heart in your throat, but he entered only to change into sleep clothes behind a screen. "Rest well," he said, lying down on the far edge, back turned. No touch. No words. Just the sound of his even breathing feigning sleep while you stared at the ceiling, wondering if this was how the rest of your life would unfold.
—----------------------------------------
The summer heat clings to everything like a second skin, turning the air inside the Uchiha compound heavy and slow. Cicadas scream in relentless waves from the trees beyond the garden wall, their chorus rising and falling in time with your pulse. You've grown used to this rhythm over the months—the quiet of the house when Itachi is gone, the soft creak of floorboards under your own feet, the way loneliness settles into your bones without quite breaking them.
You've told yourself a thousand times that this is enough. That duty fulfilled is its own kind of victory. The marriage was sealed in ink and ceremony to bind two bloodlines, to quiet the elders' murmurs about dilution and legacy, to give the clan one more thread of stability in a world already fraying at the edges. You were chosen for your lineage, your composure, your ability to stand beside the prodigy without flinching. Love was never part of the negotiation.
And Itachi... he has never pretended otherwise.
He treats you with impeccable courtesy—the bare minimum required by protocol. A murmured greeting in the morning if your paths cross before he vanishes into the ANBU shadows. A polite inquiry about your day when he returns exhausted and blood-scented. He never raises his voice, never demands anything beyond the shared space of the futon at night. Even then, he keeps to the farthest edge, body rigid as though the mattress were mined. You've memorized the controlled cadence of his breathing, the way he exhales only after he's certain you're asleep.
You've learned not to reach.
Tonight feels different, though. The humidity presses in, making your yukata stick to your back as you sit at the low table, comb moving mechanically through damp strands of hair. The engawa door stands open, letting in the night sounds and the faint metallic tang of approaching rain.
Then—footsteps.
Soft. Measured. Unmistakably his.
You don't look up at first. You expect the usual: a brief pause, the rustle of fabric as he changes course toward the bath or his private study, the hallway swallowing him whole.
But he stops in the doorway.
The comb stills midway through a stroke.
You lift your eyes slowly.
Itachi stands framed there, still wearing the dark ANBU armor, though the porcelain mask dangles loosely from his belt like an afterthought. His hair clings to his neck in wet strands—he must have stopped at the outdoor basin to rinse away the day's grime. The lamplight catches the faint sheen of water on his collarbone, the sharp line of his jaw. His Sharingan is dormant, but those dark eyes hold yours with an intensity that feels almost physical.
"You're late," you say, voice barely above the cicadas. Not bitter. Not hopeful. Just... observation.
"I was delayed." The words come out quiet, deliberate, the way he speaks when he's choosing each syllable with care. He doesn't elaborate. He never does.
You nod once and resume brushing, long strokes to hide the sudden tremor in your fingers. Any second now he'll turn away. He always does.
Instead, wood creaks faintly as he steps across the threshold. The sliding door closes behind him with a soft click—small, but it echoes like a seal being set. The room feels smaller instantly, the air thicker.
Your hand freezes again, comb suspended.
He removes his gloves first, methodical, placing them on the low shelf near the door. Then the forearm guards. Each motion is precise, unhurried, but there's something different in the quality of his silence tonight—less like absence, more like anticipation held tightly in check.
He crosses the tatami in stocking feet, stopping a respectful distance away. Close enough that you can smell cedar soap and the faint copper of old blood beneath it. Close enough that you feel the shift in temperature when his shadow falls across the table.
"You haven't eaten," he says. Not a question.
"I wasn't hungry."
A pause. Then, quieter: "You should."
You finally look up at him fully. His expression is unreadable as always, but there's a faint tension at the corners of his eyes, a line of strain that wasn't there yesterday. Or perhaps it was, and you've simply stopped looking for it.
"Why are you here?" The question slips out before you can temper it. Not accusatory—curious, almost. Vulnerable.
Itachi doesn't answer immediately. He lowers himself to sit across from you, knees folded neatly, hands resting palm-up on his thighs in that unconsciously formal way of his. The futon is still unrolled behind you both; the night stretches ahead, empty as ever.
"I..." He hesitates—actually hesitates—and the sound of it startles you more than his presence ever could. "I find myself questioning the necessity of distance."
Your breath catches.
He continues, voice low and even, though you can hear the careful weight behind each word. "This arrangement was made for the clan. For stability. I believed—still believe—that minimizing entanglement would make it... bearable. For both of us." His gaze drops briefly to the tatami between you. "But I have begun to wonder if I have mistaken necessity for kindness."
The cicadas seem louder suddenly, filling the silence that follows.
You set the comb down with deliberate care. "You've never been unkind."
"No," he agrees softly. "But I have been absent. And absence can wound as deeply as cruelty."
Your throat tightens. Months of parallel lives, of telling yourself you didn't mind the cold, of almost believing the lie. And now this—him, here, speaking truths you've both avoided naming.
"What changed?" you ask.
His eyes meet yours again. Something raw flickers there, quickly banked. "A mission. A child. A reminder that time is not infinite, and choices we defer may one day be made for us." He exhales slowly. "I returned tonight and realized I did not want another evening of silence if silence was no longer required."
Your heart beats too loud in your ears.
He doesn't move closer. Doesn't reach. But he doesn't retreat either.
The summer air presses in, sticky and expectant. Somewhere beyond the compound walls, thunder rumbles—distant, but coming.
You draw a breath. "Then stay," you say quietly. "Just... stay."
Itachi nods once, small but certain.
For the first time in months, he doesn't move to the far side of the futon.
He simply stays.
You wait.
He doesn’t speak.
The silence stretches until it feels like your skin is humming with it—every tiny sound in the room suddenly becomes too loud: the soft drip of rainwater from the eaves outside, the faint creak of the wooden beams cooling after the storm, the unsteady rhythm of your own breathing. You can feel your pulse in your fingertips, in the hollow of your throat, everywhere.
Finally, his voice comes, barely above a whisper, so quiet you almost think you imagined it:
“I’ve been unfair to you.”
You blink, startled out of the haze. “What?”
“I let you believe—” He stops, jaw tightening until a muscle flickers beneath the pale skin. “I let you believe I feel nothing.”
Your heart does something painful and sudden behind your ribs—a sharp, twisting lurch that steals your breath.
“It’s alright,” you say automatically, the words falling out like reflex. “I understand. This was never about—”
“No.” The word is sharp enough to cut you off mid-sentence. His eyes—those endless black eyes—are burning now, not with the cold anger you’ve seen before, but with something raw and barely-leashed, something that makes the air feel thinner. “You don’t understand.”
He exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, like he’s forcing air past a knot lodged deep in his throat.
“Every night,” he says, each word measured, “I lie beside you and tell myself I cannot touch you. That if I do, I will frighten you. That you will look at me the way people look at weapons—necessary, but never wanted. Never chosen.”
Your brush slips from your fingers and clatters softly against the low wooden table, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness.
“I told myself restraint was kindness,” he continues, voice dropping lower. “I told myself waiting was respect. But it was cowardice.” His gaze drops to your mouth—lingers there—then slides lower, tracing the line of your collarbone where the edge of your yukata has slipped open just enough to show skin still flushed from the bath. His eyes snap back up like he’s punishing himself for looking. “I want you. Every day. Every hour. So badly that some nights I leave the house entirely because I don’t trust my own hands not to reach for you in the dark.”
The confession lands like a thrown kunai—clean, precise, shocking. It pierces straight through every careful wall you’ve built.
You stare at him, lips parted, unable to find words.
He mistakes your silence for rejection. His shoulders tense, spine straightening in that familiar, defensive way, already preparing to stand and remove himself from the room, from you.
“I won’t force anything,” he says quickly, the words tumbling out faster than you’ve ever heard him speak. “I never would. If you want separate rooms, if you want me gone from this house—from your life—say it now and I will—”
You reach out before you can think better of it.
Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt—still damp from the rain, clinging to the lean planes of his chest—and you pull.
Not hard. Just enough.
His breath catches, sharp and audible.
You don’t let go.
“I thought you hated me,” you whisper, voice trembling on the last word.
Itachi makes a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so broken—so jagged around the edges.
“Hate you?” He lifts his hand—hesitant, trembling almost imperceptibly—and brushes the backs of his knuckles along your cheek, the touch so light it’s almost not there. “I’ve spent months trying not to devour you whole.”
Heat floods your face, your chest, everywhere at once—rushing under your skin like wildfire.
His thumb traces the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent, as though memorizing the shape.
“I wanted you on our wedding night,” he admits, voice rougher now, fraying at the seams. “I wanted to peel that kimono off you layer by layer until there was nothing left to hide behind. I wanted to hear my name in your throat until you forgot how to speak anything else—until the only sound left was the one I drew out of you.” His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. “I still want that. Every time I look at you. Every time you turn over in your sleep and your hair spills across my pillow. Every time you laugh at something small and forget I’m watching.”
You’re breathing too fast. The room feels smaller, warmer, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked cedar and the faint iron-and-smoke trace that always clings to him.
“Then why didn’t you?” you ask, barely audible over the pounding in your ears.
“Because I needed you to choose me.” His forehead drops gently against yours, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint tremor in his frame he’s trying to hide. “Not because of duty. Not because of the clan. Not because the village or your family or mine decided our fates should be bound. Because you wanted to be touched by me. Because you wanted me.”
The words crack something open inside you—something that’s been closed and quiet and aching for too long.
You slide your hand up, past the damp collar of his shirt, to the back of his neck. Your fingers thread into his still-wet hair, the strands cool and silky against your palm.
“I’m choosing now,” you say.
Itachi goes still.
Completely, utterly still—like a held breath, like the moment before a blade falls.
For one endless heartbeat nothing happens. You can feel his pulse hammering against your fingertips where they rest at the base of his skull.
Then he exhales, ragged, and the sound is almost a groan.
His free hand comes up slowly—giving you every chance to pull away—and cups the side of your face, thumb brushing the shell of your ear. The touch is careful, almost worshipful.
When he speaks again, his voice is so low it vibrates against your skin.
“Say it again.”
You swallow. Your thumb strokes once along the line of his jaw.
“I’m choosing you, Itachi.”
Something in him breaks open at the sound of his name on your lips—not softly, not dutifully, but like a promise.
His mouth finds yours.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
Hungry.
It’s six months of restraint breaking all at once—deep, hungry, teeth and tongue clashing in a desperate rhythm, the metallic tang of his earlier-bitten lip mixing with the faint herbal bitterness lingering on his breath. A low, primal sound rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against your lips like distant thunder trapped beneath his ribs. His hands—long-fingered, scarred from years of steel and seals—find your waist with bruising certainty, pulling you across the scant space between you until you’re straddling his thighs. The thin yukata rides up your legs in soft, whispering folds, silk catching on damp skin. When his calloused palms slide over the bare curve of your hips and up the small of your back, he groans into your mouth—raw, involuntary, the sound muffled against your tongue like he’s tasting salvation for the first time.
He breaks the kiss only long enough to rasp against the fragile skin of your throat, voice wrecked and gravel-rough from months of silence and suppressed want: “Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”
You shake your head, breathless, lungs burning. “Don’t you dare.”
Something feral flickers in his eyes—black depths fracturing with the barest crimson edge, a warning flare of Sharingan that vanishes as quickly as it appears.
He stands in one fluid motion, lifting you with him like you weigh nothing more than mist. Your legs wrap around his waist on pure instinct, ankles locking at the small of his back while his arms band beneath your thighs. The movement is effortless, honed by a lifetime of carrying burdens far heavier than your body. He carries you the few steps to the futon—still neatly made from this morning, the faint scent of sun-dried cotton and cedar clinging to the bedding—and lays you down like something fragile and irreplaceable, even as his hands tremble violently with the monumental effort of holding himself back.
He hovers above you, breathing hard, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls. Sweat already beads along his hairline, dark strands sticking to pale skin.
“I’ve imagined this too many times,” he murmurs, voice low and almost reverent, cracked at the edges. “I’m afraid I won’t be… gentle.”
You reach up, cup his face between your palms—feel the feverish heat of his skin, the faint tremor in his jaw.
“Then don’t be.”
That’s all it takes. The last thread of his control snaps.
But Itachi doesn’t rush. Even when the leash is gone, even when your whispered “don’t you dare” still echoes in the humid air between you, he doesn’t simply fall on you like a starved animal. No—he savors the breaking, draws it out like a blade across silk.
He stays above you for one long, trembling heartbeat, black eyes drinking in every inch of your face like he’s committing it to eternal memory—every flutter of your lashes, every parted gasp, the way your pupils have blown wide in the low lantern light. Then his mouth crashes back to yours—harder this time, teeth catching your lower lip just enough to sting sharply before he soothes the bite with slow, filthy drags of his tongue, tasting the faint copper of your blood mingled with his own.
You arch instinctively, seeking more contact, more pressure, anything. He pins your hips down with one large hand, fingers splaying wide across your pelvis—not letting you chase the friction you’re already desperate for. A low, guttural sound rumbles in his throat when you whimper into his mouth, the vibration traveling straight down your spine.
“Patience,” he murmurs against your lips, the word almost mocking in its gentleness while his own voice is wrecked—gravel and hunger and something dangerously close to pain. “I’ve waited months. You can wait a little longer can’t you?”
But his control is fraying visibly now; the hand not anchoring your hip slides up under the loose edge of your yukata, calloused fingertips skating over the hypersensitive skin of your inner thigh in feather-light strokes that make your muscles jump against his touch. He stops just short of your pussy, where you’re already aching, swollen and slick, embarrassingly drenched for him after nothing more than his kisses and the weight of his stare.
You try to roll your hips upward into his hand, seeking his touch. He presses you flat again, firmer this time, forearm like iron across your lower belly.
“Not yet.”
He pulls back just enough to look down between your bodies. The yukata has fallen open completely; your breasts are bare to the thick, humid air, nipples already tight and aching from nothing more than his heavy-lidded gaze and the ghost of his breath ghosting over them. He watches them rise and fall with your ragged breathing like a man hypnotized, like the sight alone is enough to unravel him further.
Then he lowers his head.
The first pass of his tongue over one peaked nipple is slow—deliberate—circling the areola in lazy spirals before he closes his lips around it and sucks. Hard. The sudden pull sends a jolt straight to your cunt; you cry out, back bowing off the futon in a sharp arch. He switches to the other side without warning, giving it the same ruthless attention—teeth grazing just enough to border pain, then tongue laving in slow, wet circles—while his free hand finally—finally—slides between your thighs.
Two fingers part you open and glide through slick, swollen folds with obscene ease, and stop again—just resting there, feeling how hot and dripping you are, how your entrance flutters helplessly around nothing.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin. The curse—so rare from him, so raw—hits like a spark igniting dry tinder. “You’re soaked. All this time… you’ve been this wet for me?”
You can’t form words anymore.
Your jaw works uselessly, lips parted on shallow, ragged breaths. All you manage is a frantic, repeated nod—chin jerking up and down like a broken marionette—while your fingers claw deeper into the dense muscle capping his shoulders. Nails bite crescent moons into his skin; you feel the faint give of flesh under them, the heat of tiny half-moons you’re leaving behind. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, the sting seems to please him.
He rewards the raw honesty of your body with the slowest possible slide of one long finger.
The intrusion is deliberate, obscene in its patience. You feel every millimeter: the smooth glide of his fingertip parting slick folds, the subtle thickening as the first knuckle breaches you, the faint ridge of the second joint catching just enough to make your inner walls flutter in protest and greed. By the time he’s buried to the hilt, your spine has arched off the futon in a taut, trembling bow.
He curls immediately.
No preamble, no gentleness—just firm, unerring pressure against that swollen, spongy patch inside that turns your vision to static white. Your thighs seize around his wrist like a trap snapping shut; a high, shattered sound punches out of your throat. The muscles in your pelvis jump and twitch involuntarily, trying to chase that bright burst of pleasure even as it threatens to overwhelm you.
“Again,” you rasp, voice cracked and barely human.
He doesn’t make you ask twice.
A second finger joins the first on the next slow withdrawal—two now stretching you wider, the slight burn of the stretch only sharpening the ache. He sets a rhythm that is somehow both cruel and worshipful: long, dragging pulls that leave you hollow and clenching around nothing, followed by hard, deliberate thrusts that bury both digits to the root. Each inward stroke ends with that same precise curl, that same merciless press against your g-spot until your vision swims and your heels dig bruises into the futon.
And then his thumb finally—finally—settles over your clit.
At first the touch is maddeningly light: the barest graze of the pad, almost accidental, tracing lazy circles that make your hips roll up in helpless little jerks. Then he presses down. Firmer. Faster. Relentless little strokes that match the rhythm of his fingers inside you—quick, tight spirals that send white-hot sparks racing up your spine. Your thighs start shaking violently around his forearm; your toes curl so hard the arches of your feet cramp. Every muscle below your navel is strung tight, vibrating, ready to snap.
He doesn’t let you come.
The first time your breath hitches into that telltale staccato, when your walls begin the helpless, rhythmic flutter that signals the edge, he simply… stops.
Fingers still buried deep, he holds perfectly motionless while your body convulses around the denial. You whine—high and wounded—hips bucking uselessly, trying to fuck yourself on his unmoving hand. After an eternity (ten seconds? twenty?) he withdraws completely. The sudden emptiness is devastating; your cunt clenches so hard it almost hurts, slick dripping down the crease of your thigh in a slow, humiliating trickle.
He waits until your breathing slows to something less frantic.
Then he starts again.
The second time is worse.
He builds you faster—thumb working ruthless little circles, fingers curling on every other thrust until your eyes are rolling and your mouth hangs open on wordless, keening sounds. Right as the coil in your pelvis begins its final, irreversible tightening, he pulls free again. This time he spreads his fingers on the way out, stretching you one last cruel inch before leaving you gaping and spasming around nothing. Your sob is broken, animal.
Third denial.
You’re crying now—hot, frustrated tears slipping into your hairline. He kisses them away almost tenderly even as he forces you right back to the brink. Three fingers this time. The stretch burns sweetly; you’re so wet it’s obscene, the wet squelch of his hand loud enough to make shame flare hot in your chest. He scissors gently on the out-stroke, then slams back in with punishing force. His thumb never leaves your clit. You keen high in your throat when the orgasm starts cresting—then choke on a sob when he yanks everything away at the last possible second. Your whole lower body jerks like you’ve been electrocuted; your walls pulse and flutter uselessly around devastating emptiness.
By the fourth time you’re nearly incoherent.
Hips jerking in the air, legs trembling so badly they won’t stay spread, hands scrabbling at his shoulders, his biceps, his hair—anything to anchor you. The pleas fall out in fractured pieces:
“Please—Itachi—please—”
“Need you—can’t—can’t anymore—”
“Inside—need you inside—please—”
He finally kisses you again.
It’s filthy—open-mouthed, messy, all teeth and tongue. He drinks every broken sound you make like they’re precious offerings laid at an altar only he can see. One hand fists in your hair to hold you still while the other cups your jaw, thumb pressing into the soft hollow beneath your ear. When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his Sharingan is bleeding through the black—crimson pinwheels flickering at the edges of blown pupils like embers about to catch. The red glow catches on the wet shine of your mouth, on the tear tracks cutting down your cheeks.
He leans in until his lips brush the shell of your ear.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked in a way that tells you he’s not as unaffected as he pretends. “Completely undone. Mine.”
His fingers slide back inside you—three again—slow, so slow you feel every ridge, every vein, every deliberate flex before he removes them.
“I want to taste you first,” he says, voice hoarse and frayed at the edges like old silk starting to tear. “I’ve dreamed of it. Every night. Every fucking mission when I should have been focused.”
The confession lands like a blade between your ribs—quiet, precise, devastating. Itachi Uchiha, the man who carried the weight of entire clans on the edge of a kunai, admitting that you haunted him in the dark. Before the meaning can fully sink in, before you can even draw breath to answer, he’s already moving.
He slides down your body with predatory grace, palms hot and sure as they hook under your knees. In one smooth motion he spreads you wide—legs draped over the breadth of his shoulders, heels digging uselessly into the flexing muscles of his back. The position folds you open completely: no hiding, no modesty, just your slick, swollen pussy laid bare under the low lantern light. Cool air kisses your drenched folds for half a heartbeat—then his exhale ghosts over you, warm and deliberate, making your entrance clench around nothing and your hips jerk before he’s even touched you.
He looks.
Not a cursory glance. He studies you like a battlefield map, like scripture, dark eyes tracing every glistening fold, the way your clit throbs visibly under his scrutiny, the slow drip of arousal that trails down toward the futon. His throat works on a hard swallow. The sound is loud in the quiet room.
Then he leans in and drags his tongue in one long, slow, filthy stripe—from your weeping entrance all the way up to the oversensitive peak of your clit.
Your hips snap upward so violently he has to slam a forearm across your pelvis, pinning you flat. The corded strength in that single arm trembles—not from effort, but from the sheer force of his own restraint. He groans against you, low and broken, the vibration traveling straight through your cunt. The sound he makes is raw, almost pained—like your taste is salvation and torment in equal measure, better than survival, better than vengeance, better than anything the world ever tried to take from him.
He doesn’t tease after that first taste.
He devours.
His tongue spears inside you—deep, curling thrusts that mimic the rhythm he’d used with his fingers earlier, only wetter, hotter, more obscene. You claw at the bedding; silk rips under your nails with sharp, satisfying tears. When he pulls back it’s only to seal his mouth over your clit and suck—hard, rhythmic pulls that make your vision tunnel and your toes cramp. The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth working you fill the room: slick laps, deliberate slurps, the occasional low rumble in his throat when you gush against his tongue.
Your thighs are already shaking, inner muscles jumping every time he flicks the underside of your clit with devastating precision. He feels it—the way your body is starting to crest again—and without breaking rhythm he slides three fingers back inside you. They sink into the knuckles on one smooth, relentless push. The stretch is exquisite, almost too much after so long being denied, and he curls them immediately, hooking that same ruthless spot while his tongue lashes your clit in tight, merciless circles.
You come so hard the world disappears.
It rips through you like lightning grounding itself—back bowing off the futon until only your shoulders and heels touch the bedding, a scream tearing out of your throat that cracks into sobs halfway through. Your walls clamp down on his fingers like a vice, pulsing, milking, slick gushing in hot pulses over his hand, his wrist, his chin. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He works you through every brutal wave—slower now, tongue flattening to broad, soothing laps over your clit, fingers rocking gently inside to draw out the aftershocks until your whole body is one long, shuddering twitch.
You’re oversensitive, wrecked, every nerve singing. Weakly, you push at his head—palms slipping on sweat-damp hair, trying to get him to stop before the pleasure turns sharp and unbearable.
Only then does he lift his head.
His lips are swollen, dark with blood flow. His chin glistens obscenely—coated in you, shining wet in the lantern glow. Strands of your arousal stretch and snap between his mouth and your core when he finally pulls back far enough to meet your eyes.
His Sharingan is dormant again, swallowed by black, but the pupils are blown so wide there’s almost no iris left. Fractured. Wild. The man who once stared down armies without blinking looks like he’s the one coming undone.
He drags the back of his hand across his mouth—slow, deliberate—smearing your release over his lips like war paint before he licks it clean again. The sight sends another helpless aftershock rippling through you; your cunt flutters around nothing.
“You taste like everything I was never supposed to want,” he rasps, voice gravel and reverence. His gaze drops to where you’re still twitching, still leaking for him. “And I’m still not finished with you.”
He crawls back up your body with deliberate slowness, like a predator savoring the aftermath of a kill he never wanted to end. His mouth maps a burning trail over the quivering plane of your stomach—open-mouthed kisses that drag teeth just enough to sting, tongue flicking into the dip of your navel until your muscles jump. He lingers between the swollen curves of your breasts, sucking a bruise into the tender underside of one, then the other, marking territory no one else will ever see. When he reaches the column of your throat your pulse hammers against his lips like a war drum calling him home; he presses his open mouth there and sucks gently, tasting salt and frantic life.
He finally claims your mouth again.
The kiss is slow, obscene—his tongue sliding against yours so you taste yourself, sharp and musky and unmistakably you. You whimper into it, fresh heat pooling low in your belly despite the bone-deep exhaustion already settling in your limbs. Your hands find his hair, tugging weakly, trying to pull him closer even as your body trembles from overstimulation.
You feel him then—hot, thick, leaking—pressing insistently against the soft skin of your inner thigh. He’s been hard for so long the front of his pants is soaked through, dark fabric clinging transparently to the rigid length beneath. The damp heat of his precum smears against your leg when he shifts, and he grinds once—slow, deliberate—letting you feel every rigid inch through that thin, ruined barrier.
“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, a promise draped in sin, breath hot and ragged, voice frayed to threads. “And you’re going to take every second of it.”
He sheds the rest of his clothes in movements that are economical and almost violent—pants shoved down and kicked away, shirt torn over his head and discarded without a glance. Naked now, every lean line of him is bared to you: the pale expanse of skin marred by old scars, the faint tremor in his thighs from holding back for so long, the way his cock stands flushed and heavy between you, dark head glistening, veins standing out stark and angry.
He settles back between your thighs, one hand wrapping around his length—fingers barely meeting around the girth—and guides himself through your folds. The broad head parts your pussy easily, slick and swollen from everything he’s already done to you. He notches himself at your entrance and pauses. Every muscle in his body locks tight—arms cording, jaw clenched, breath sawing in and out like he’s fighting a war with himself.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes snap to his—black, endless, burning with something that looks dangerously close to devotion.
He pushes in—slow—inch by torturous inch.
The stretch is exquisite, almost too much after the edging, after his mouth, after the way he’s already wrecked you once. He’s thick, longer than you expected, and you feel every vein, every subtle throb as he sinks deeper. Your walls flutter and clutch at him involuntarily; he hisses through his teeth, hips rolling in minute, controlled increments until he’s seated fully—hips flush to yours, balls pressed tight against your ass, pubic bone grinding against your oversensitive clit.
You both freeze there. Breathing hard. Sweat dripping from his brow onto your collarbone in slow, warm drops. His arms are shaking—fine tremors running through the biceps that cage you in.
“Too much?” he rasps, voice strained to the breaking point, like speaking costs him everything.
You shake your head frantically, nails digging into his shoulders again. “Move. Please.”
He pulls back almost all the way—until just the weeping tip of his cock remains inside, stretching your entrance taut—then snaps his hips forward in one smooth, brutal thrust.
You cry out, sharp and broken, nails raking down the length of his back hard enough to leave red trails. He groans—low, guttural—the sound punched from deep in his chest.
He sets a punishing rhythm after that: deep, rolling strokes that drag against every sensitive place inside you, hitting that spongy spot over and over until your toes curl and your breath punches out in sharp, helpless gasps. One of his hands braces beside your head, knuckles bleaching white against the futon; the other grips your thigh, hitching it higher over his hip so he can sink even deeper with every punishing drive.
The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room—obscene, rhythmic, echoing off the wooden walls. His breathing turns ragged, broken little grunts escaping every time he bottoms out, the sound torn from him like confession.
You rake your nails down his back again—harder this time. Red lines bloom across his shoulders like fresh war paint. He hisses, hips stuttering for a single heartbeat before the pace turns feral.
“Again,” he growls against your mouth. “Mark me.”
You do.
Over and over—nails carving crimson paths down his back, across his shoulders, claiming him the only way your trembling body knows how. He fucks you harder for it—relentless, unyielding—until the futon shifts beneath you with every thrust, wooden frame creaking in protest like it might give way.
He changes the angle—grinds down on every upward stroke so his pelvis drags over your clit with perfect, grinding pressure. The coil builds fast—too fast—white-hot and unstoppable, pleasure so sharp it borders on pain.
“Come for me,” he orders, voice wrecked beyond recognition. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”
You shatter.
Walls spasming wildly around him, milking him in rhythmic, greedy pulses. Your vision blacks at the edges as pleasure whites out everything else. You sob his name—over and over—begging him to slow down, speed up, anything, everything. He fucks you through it—long, punishing strokes—drawing the orgasm out until you’re shaking, oversensitive, tears slipping into your hair.
He doesn’t slow.
Instead he hooks your legs over his elbows, folds you nearly in half beneath him, and drives even deeper. The new angle has you seeing white—each brutal thrust kissing your cervix, stretching you to the absolute limit. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point—not biting, just pressing, a possessive claim that makes your heart stutter.
“I’m close,” he warns, voice strained to shattering. “Where—”
“Inside,” you gasp without hesitation. “Please—inside—”
That single word—please—snaps the last thread of his restraint.
He slams into you once, twice, then stills—buried to the hilt—as he comes with a broken moan of your name that sounds torn from somewhere deep and ancient and wounded. You feel every hot pulse, every thick twitch inside you, feel him flood you with his cum until it’s leaking out around his cock in slow, obscene trickles that drip down your skin and onto the futon beneath you.
He doesn’t pull out.
He stays there—breathing hard against your throat, his cock still twitching with aftershocks. His arms tremble where they cage you, muscles locked so tight you can feel the fine tremor in every line of him.
Long minutes pass before he finally eases back—just enough to look at your face. Sweat-damp hair clings to his forehead in dark, messy strands. His eyes are soft now—exhausted black, no trace of red, only something raw and unguarded that makes your chest ache.
He brushes a trembling thumb over your cheek, catching a stray tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.
“I love you,” he whispers—like a vow this time, like absolution, like something he’s carried in silence for too many years.
You turn your head, press a shaky kiss to the center of his palm.
“I know,” you murmur, voice hoarse and wrecked. “I love you too.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the night the world first broke him—centuries compressed into one long, shuddering release.
Then he lowers himself carefully, rolling so you’re draped across his chest. His softening cock stays nestled deep inside you, warm and heavy and grounding. Neither of you moves to separate.
The cicadas sing outside in endless, droning waves. Summer air drifts through the open shoji—thick, humid, heavy with the scent of coming rain, cedar smoke, sex, and salt. Your combined sweat cools slowly on your skin.
And for the first time since that wedding night you both pretended didn’t matter—
Itachi holds you like he never intends to let go.
His fingers trace idle, soothing patterns along your spine. His heartbeat slows beneath your ear—steady now, calm in a way you’ve never heard it before.
You think, dimly, that this might be the closest either of you will ever come to peace.
